I Remember

I Remember
Trudy Edgington


It happens when my brothers and sisters come together. We tend to reminisce our childhood.
The wedding in May gave us this chance to share and to catch up. It’s not easy. We’re scattered across the globe. So it requires a significant event to bring all seven of us together again at the same time.

Our chosen spot to gather is around the kitchen table. The same old stories are told over and over but no one seems to mind. We are connected. We are transported back in time. Some of our best times were around the table. Mom loved it best with Dad at one end the table and she at the other end, and we grouped in our special seat. They would give amused glances as certain topics were being discussed which Mom wrote down for all the relatives to read. There was never an end to the material she could write home about. She could weave a story that left you wanting more.

As always, we all chimed in, laughing like we did as children as we were retelling the pancake story. Mom was not an early riser. Most mornings she would stand at the stove in a semiconscious state slowly making pancake after pancake. Reading late at night was her normal routine, consuming one book after the other.

On one particular morning Mom went through the ritual of heating the skillet, taking the mixture from the cabinet and stirring everything together. The aroma of pancakes filled the kitchen announcing breakfast is being served. Larry was the first to arrive at the scene.
With one bite it became evident that something was not quite right.

Larry, being an old man at age three, was trying to communicate in a matter of fact way. All he could say was "Yucky." Words were not necessary, and his face said it all. Watching Larry, no one wanted to risk the ordeal of being another victim.

Mom's big black eyes showed that she was not happy with the complaints. Last one to the kitchen was Dad. He sat at his usual spot and proceeded to eat. All eyes were on Dad. Leaping from the table, he ran from the room mumbling something like, "Yoap." With all the confusion, Mom could not understand what he was saying.

Larry quickly answered, "He said, "Soap." Mom whirled around and there in the cabinet, beside the pancake mixture was the All Soap powder. Mom had grabbed the wrong box. The pancakes were the prettiest Mom had ever made and her last.

Life was simple and uncomplicated. But never dull. When my twin and I were born, Mom needed an extra pair of hands: Dad, Mother Edgington, and hired help, Mary. The two oldest, Larry and Joy, were spellbound by how two little ones could keep everyone jumping. We were on some expensive powdered milk and rest of the family were on baked beans. That Christmas Dad went to the woods for our Christmas tree. What little money left over was spent on gifts for us. Mom sent homemade cookies to relatives along with one of her "corny" poems.

Christmas found us penniless
But loaded with Good Wishes
"Heck," I said, "You folks won’t mind
I’ll send something that’s delicious."

So I baked these little cookies
Followed the receipt to the T.
If they taste like Hell
Don’t blame the mess on me.

Mom dreams of becoming a writer were never fulfilled. But that never stopped her from sharing her little masterpieces.

Surely there were moments when Mom felt ill-prepared. Daily chores kept mounting. Seven dozen diapers crowded the clothes’ line. Formula had to be made twice in twenty-four hours. Those were the days when housekeeping wasn’t instant anything. Someone was always sick and if you didn’t have a cold, mom wiped your nose from force of habit. Our doctor summed it up neatly one day, he said, "Someone is always wheezing at the Edgingtons." And so they were.

Anything free, we were there. We fed the ducks at Hampton Park. We played in the sand and water at Folly Beach. Drive-in theaters were the rage then and we were their best customers. Mom popped popcorn, made a pitcher of lemonade, and the most important item of all -the nursery chair (a potty chair) and loaded us in the car.

When it came to school activities, nothing kept Mom home, not even a broken foot. She was the cheering section. One memorial basketball game, Larry made a perfect shot in the wrong basket. Mom was the only one on our side of the bleachers that yelled and cheered: "Great shot, Larry."

Dad tugged her shirt while she shouted: "My boy did that, good for you." Unaware of the scoreboard adding two points to the opposing team, she wondered why no one was cheering. Suddenly Mom had a funny look, she realized she too had made a mistake.

Sitting at the table, I felt if Mom and Dad were with us, listening in on the stories as they did long ago. It all seemed real.